


darling heart, the state i'm in

by aerynlallaboso



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: F/F, Implied/Referenced Necrophilia, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 07:21:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9646103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerynlallaboso/pseuds/aerynlallaboso
Summary: You and I, two as one, one as two.





	

**Author's Note:**

> 6 AM BAD IDEA TIME
> 
>  
> 
> [x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZOnnHPhCKQ0)

The sea rocks her cabin from side to side. She can smell it without seeing it; the ocean is just a clear puddle of blood, when you think about it, blood without copper. All that salt and all that life.

 

She is bored. The cabin is locked because everybody is terrified of her. Rightfully. If she got out, who knows what she might do to them, the crew and their hides of flesh, sweet-smelling and stuffed with real coppery blood and hard bones. She cannot wait until they are at their destination. She will be free, leashless.

 

Someone will be waiting for her in the city, though they won’t know it. They won’t know until her teeth enter their flesh that they were meant for her! Their blood was fated to cover her body like a silken sheet, their bones the perfect size to fill her up. She likes to sit on their thighs and gnaw and rut and disgrace herself until the last possible moment.

 

Grim Alex huffs. She wishes she had a bone now. Or a book - ah. She plucks that thought from her head and sniffs it. Hypatia’s thought. A stray fancy from a sleeping mind.

 

Above all, Alex wishes that she could tear herself apart. Rather, the good doctor Hypatia, locked up in her head where she cannot get at her. Her mirror, her twin, her other self whom she is confined to ravish and devour only by proxy.

 

Proxy. The ship sways. Alex’s tongue darts in and out of her mouth.

 

She imagines Hypatia before her. This is not hard; she simply has to see herself, stripped of her proper hide and possessed of dark, wide doe eyes filled with something that cannot quite be called fear. Hatred? Hypatia does not know of her existence, but she _would_ hate her. Alex extends a claw to the air, then has a better idea.

 

Hypatia watches, in her mind, unbuttoning her jacket and shirt. Horrified, but intrigued, with a scientist’s curiosity. And with innocence of the murders that the body before her has committed, too? No, that’s no fun. Alex smears a line of imaginary gore across her breasts, brushing her nipples and never breaking eye contact with the unoccupied spot across her cabin where Hypatia sits.

 

She sticks her tongue out at her. If only she had the flexibility to lick herself, or perhaps a rat to kill, to bite into in place of her own tenderness. She thinks of Hypatia overcoming her horror for long enough to approach her. Touch her. Hypatia’s mouth on her breasts is an image she relishes, delights in. Small, blunt teeth grazing her most sensitive places - all the hair on the back of her neck is standing up.

 

In her imagination, Hypatia - dear, sweet Hypatia, kin but not by blood, by _spirit_ \- moves her mouth lower. Alex sinks her claws into Hypatia’s neck and feels rivulets of warm blood drench her hands; Hypatia, this hypothetical Hypatia, moans in her own voice. But higher, of course, softer. It grates on Alex to hear herself in such a manner.

 

She brings Hypatia back to her feet by means of the claws in her neck and begins to undress her; to undress herself a second time in pantomime. Hypatia’s devoted hands and mouth are her own, imagined and physically real, massaging herself. She grips Hypatia’s hand and rolls it in her blood like ink for a fingerprint and guides it down. A fingertip strokes her waist below her belly, paints it red. She likes to paint herself like this, mark herself. The people she consumes are hers and she is theirs for a brief moment. She is inside them. One with them.

 

She wishes so badly for a femur or a skull, clotted with thickening black blood, it would be delicious to ride herself on it, but she has neither. The crew have left her nothing for fear of her breaking out.

 

Her fingers suffice, although they are Hypatia’s fingers in her mind, teasing at her entrance. She has been wet and hot since she began to think about her next kill; it is a relief to have something slip between her legs and start to rub. Her fingers. Hypatia’s. Hypatia is before her, bleeding from the neck and eyes and ears, crying red tears into the space between her breasts and rubbing at her clit - Alex coos at the imaginary sight. Hypatia sighs.

 

She drives herself against Hypatia/herself/Hypatia, blood rising, pleasure welling, the cabin in which she lies prone atop her bed swaying-

 

Hypatia says something, in her imagination. It is drowned out by Alex’s howl.

 

She howls until she is hoarse, long after the swell of heat has boiled over and dissipated into a pleasant bonelessness, because she can. She can never be too loud when she kills. Someone might come before she is finished, and then what would she do?

 

To her annoyance, the howl has driven away the fantasy of Hypatia, back to that bright place in her mind. The afterimages still remain; Alex immerses herself in them. She holds up her fingers and sucks them, tastes herself, tastes Hypatia.

 

_Someday_ , she says to the air. _We will do this face to face. Delilah has_ promised _me. You and I, two as one, one as two. Finally I will be able to shred you, darling_ , she whispers to Hypatia.

 

The cabin sways side to side. She is no longer bored.


End file.
